Substantial Penalties

I was wondering when they would come around to me.

Being an independent in my line of work is quite, shall we say, challenging? And vulnerable. So the Guild of Merchants, in their infinite greed, thought to take advantage of me.

I will assume that they presumed, for the sake of the argument, that I couldn't read. Perhaps they thought my substantial assets prevented me from holding a book properly?

Rest assured, not only do I fathom the complexities of this our tangled language, but I also realize the wrangles of two others well, and a smattering of five-ish more. I am quite the ployglot. Polymath, though, not so much. It's difficult to pick up extra skills when your primary profession involves a person lying on their back for the duration of each session.

You can guess that I'm a member of the world's oldest profession. Ahem.

And I'm quite skilled at it.

And I do not take much abuse in the way of shame nor generosity. If one were to excoriate me for my wage earning, then one does not need my ample assets. One would be amazed at how many leeches in human flesh do not comprehend that simple, linear deduction.

So it became even more delicious when the Guild came to me, hat in hand, wishing my dues and assigns, etc.

I am neither foolish nor stupid. I was quite aware they were angling for Guild discounts on my premium goods.

Now, I am not one to sneer at those who ask for special services. There are some I provide, and some that I don't. I am very clear with my contracts, and my patrons sign before exchange of money, goods, and services.

And I have an excellent wizard on my client list, and he has set the spells on my two contract boxes. One for the blanks, to be endlessly duplicated; one for the signed contracts, to be fireproof and indestructible. And a little twist that no matter what false name you use to sign, it transforms into your real name. My wizard client enjoys my services and wishes to keep them for a good long time. A lawyer client made the contract, and it's amazingly good. He also wishes to keep visiting me, because I have a devious mind, and he secretly delights in what deviltry I propose.

It was rather amusing, when I was summoned to the Guild house, with their pompous overblown ornate gilt and carvings and just ugh, I feel really sorry for their maids. Presenting their contract to me like it was a marriage proposal, as if they were doing me a great favor by legitimizing my career. Because I cannot legally put my wealth in banks, you see, so it's in such grave danger. They could remedy that, of course. Keep my money in their vault, have an official office in their hall for conducting business, access to their food hall, etc. etc.

I almost laughed in their faces, the ridiculous fools. Like I don't own my own home outright? Have a safe place to put my earnings? Enjoy all my own comforts, that I purchased with my money, and have no person, male nor female, to tell me otherwise? Have to look to society or fashion or an arrogant turd of a husband to ask what I should wear, or say, or where to go? And to throw that all away because some pompous ass needs to borrow others' money to shore up his own failing assets? And get some on the side, conveniently, outside his marriage? I think not!

I ordered them to bring me a chair, and bade them wait. Then I read their infernal contract. Right in front of them.

I saw the clauses. And sub headings. Ach, did they not think I had eyes and comprehension? I let out a most unladylike snort when I found the “dues” translated to my whole life savings, plus the deed to my house.

I called for a pen and a bottle of ink. And a scribe, who would have to rewrite this slop.

Once the nervous little man was seated beside me, I began scratching out and re-writing that swill to something that resolved into a decent contract. If this was their standard, a majority of the business owners in the city were getting shorn naked! Believe me when I say by the time I had finished setting up a proper contract, many lordlings were sweating in their fine clothing.

And I made a point of sliding one of my own contracts over, and bidding them sign. If you're bedding me, you're signing, no matter what a rewritten Guild contract says.

They didn't like it. They tried to falsify signatures. They were dismayed when the real ones appeared, with their titles, so there was no confusion.

And when they tried to usher me into my new office – with their own appointments in their execrable taste – I demanded a closet instead. Only room for two chairs and a small desk. Because I wasn't spending more than an ounce of time here if I could at all help the situation. You want a discount? See me at my home.

Then they showed me their vault.

And the issue became clear.

I am not the only one who utilizes the wizardly services for protection. Most everyone in the city who can afford it, will spell an object in a set – usually something small, like a ring or brooch or a single coin – as a surety against theft of it all.

Centuries of bungled spells, and things being jumbled in the vault and flung around, and the original spellcasters dying and others trying patch spells to allow things to be broken up and sold off, had led to the spells bleeding into each other and it's just a mess, people. You should have seen it.

Which I could, because I have spectacles spelled to see such things.

The wizard is a very good client.

And they wanted my contracts added to this spell summation? And their own paltry money piles slumped on pitiful tables?

I removed the chairs from my closet-office, and left a parchment on the table: If you wish to meet me, come to the red door at 123 Street of Costly Courtesans.

And then I invited my wizardly friend over for some lively entertainment, and deep discussion. I will leave you in the dark as to which parts were transacted in the bedroom.

And we enacted a plan, because we both had some troubling premonitions.

When the next visitor arrived for their services, they met with a startling sight. My tasteful wallpaper with dark wood-paneled trim was stripped from the foyer and public rooms. In its place, all the old contracts, from people safely dead, were wallpapered in their place.

Everywhere.

Walls, ceiling. Floor, under rugs. Peeping from behind paintings, reflected in the mirrors of the retiring room near the guarderobe. Covering the table where food was served, stuffed in cushions and comfortable chairs.

You'll recall, I may have mentioned they were spelled to be indestructable.

Arson is a service, under the Guild's twisted way of thinking. So civic-minded, they are. They were brought in decades before I was.

But I also have some of the arsonists in my client list, under contract as well. They told me when the Guild council trash talk became a cunning plan, which of course occurred right after I refused a freebie to the Guildmaster. Direct breach of contract, and a thing that was stipulated in all the contracts that I would not do, under any circumstances.

So I called in my wizard, and my arsonists, and we had a meeting. Again, it is none of your business which portion of that meeting occurred in my bedroom. But it is, in fact, my business, and I'm very, very good at it.

So it should come as no surprise that the Guild hall burned down.

Complete loss, such a shame. Thousands of active contracts, all the opulent carvings, hundreds of years of history and tradition and gack such a load of useless twaddle.

The vault, as well. A lovely thick layer of gold melted to the floor. Regular fire shouldn't get to that temperature, truly.

But that's what happens when a spell is reflected. With a curved mirror. And many pounds of undiluted sodium, that naughty alchemist. So very, very naughty...

I took charge. The gold was cut up into pieces and distributed by weight to its rightful owners. Extra shares to the merchants who got fleeced over the years. I'm not sure what happened to all that loosed magic, but my wizard friend looked quite smug, and plump in a shiny aura way.

I even sifted the ash for the gilding, and got that sorted.

Rebuilding would be much more refined, and I threatened the fingers of the wood carvers if they took bribes to do some decorative carving.

My new office? Right where it should be, pride of place, at the top of the stairs. I keep a second room with a soft bed, and delightful pillows and toys, in case of official business. Mostly, though, it's couples counseling. I get such better rates for consultation rather than contract work, because the former isn't covered under the standard Guild contract. Makes for happier marriages, too, when I can teach those idiotic men what to do with their danglies that would help satisfy their lady.

I got a better cook for the newly built kitchen. Less rich foods, more flavorful, and better wines. I like vinegar, don't get me wrong... as a cleaning agent.

The old Guildmaster and his cohorts? Haven't seen them in a long time. I think they're hiding in their respective homes, especially since I papered their contract right inside the door of the new building. Though the former Guildmaster's wife comes in occasionally, for leather strap practice. She's got an excellent wrist for the snap, I must admit.

Most clients never read the whole contract. They just sign, and want to jump right to the activity. But now you know: there are quite substantial penalties for early withdrawal.